


Leader of the Pack

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blowjobs, Clubbing, Drugs, M/M, Otabek's a bad boy, Pre-Canon, Smoking, Teenage Shenanigans, Toking, emotionally constipated teenagers, face fucking, handjobs, necking, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-23 07:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jean was a good boy until he met HIM.





	1. THE BASEMENT

———

Jean was a good boy.

Polite, obedient, god-fearing. Every parents’ dream. A model teenager. Where most boys his age were rebelling, sneaking out, joy riding, Jean was holding hands with his sweetheart on one side, mother on the other and saying grace at Sunday dinner with his family.

Jean was a good, _pure_ boy.

Until HE came along.

Jean had come home one day to find his younger brother had been booted out of their shared room to make way for the student his parents had agreed to coach. Some year long training exchange, they didn’t weigh him down with the details. It didn't really matter to Jean at the time, whom was totally oblivious to the changes the dark-haired stranger would bring into his life.

Otabek Altin, a skater with talent but few resources, jumping the border from the US and into Canada, straight into the welcoming arms of the Leroys. A reserved boy. Shy, they had told Jean.

Jean didn't know where Kazakhstan was and neither did his parents. But at the very least Otabek definitely was not Catholic. His expression would shift from stoic to almost blank fascination at their prayers at every meal, giving sidelong glances at the crucifixes hanging abundantly around the Leroy home. Cultural integration, his parents had suggested, and Otabek seemed to play along, silently accompanying the family to Mass on Sunday though his face never really changed no matter how emotional the sermon became. 

So now at grace it was Jean's sweetheart on one side, her delicate ivory hand in his, and the either enconsed by the firm, tanned hand of Otabek Altin. Absolute unassuming, he slotted into their lives with apparent ease. So a few scant weeks into Otabek's time with the Leroys it seemed only natural for him to accompany Jean as a chaperone to the local congregations' elementary school dance.

The sun dipped just below the horizon, painting the suburbs in a pinky haze as they were dropped off in the mini-van by Jean's mother. Bumper coated in sporting stickers and Jesus fish.

"Have fun my boys, and behave!"

She shouted before drawing up the window. 

Jean snorted to himself as she rolled out of the church hall's cul de sac. Behind them a smattering of adults struggled with cartons of juice, folding tables and streamers.

_‘Behave.’_

Rolling his head over to Otabek, the Kazakh looked at stoic as ever, face painted in that almost impenetrable blank mask, the same he seemed to wear everyday. Breaking it seemed impossible. His dark eyes flickered up to make eye contact with Jean, and for a moment the Canadian’s heart couldn't help but flutter at it's intensity.

_Weird._

He disposed of the feeling quickly, throwing his arm across the shorter teen's shoulders and jostling him good-naturedly.

"Ready to have fun, Ota?" Otabek let himself be shook a little before firmly taking a hold of Jean's wrist and shrugging off his opposite arm.

"Don't call me that please,” he said firmly under his breath. Jean felt him release his wrist gently, skin burning as his finger tips withdrew.

"Well," Jean chuckled again, turning toward the white double doors of the church hall, "what do you wanna be called, eh?"

Otabek's hands were already his pockets as he trailed behind the Canadian; both teens dressed to match by Jean's mother in white dress shirts and straight black slacks. Otabek’s thickly starched shirt filling out a little better than Jean’s which hung off his shoulders. Slacks brushing high on his meticulously cleaned dress shoes.

“Alto?” Jean quipped as he reached the door, examining the slightly unapproving look Otabek gave him at that suggesting.

Jean laughed again, loud enough to draw a few looks from the other chaperones whom seemed to lose interest just as quickly. Otabek’s brow darkened further at the attention.

"Okay, okay! Uh..." he stared into Otabek's face, all sharp lines and smooth tanned skin. Square shoulders rolling indifferently at the scrutiny.

"Beks?" He said a little softer than he had intended. 

He must of caught Otabek off-guard as the other skater's stoic fascade broke for just a second revealing an unusually soft? pleased? vulnerable? expression. It was gone as soon as it came however, Otabek pushing past Jean and into the hall.

“Alright… Jean."

If it wasn’t the first time he had said his name out loud is certainly felt like it, rolling off Otabek’s lips with that clipped accent. There was a sudden realization he would really like Otabek to say his name like that again. The flutter in his chest was back as he watched Otabek pass onto the hard-wood dance floor, under the pink and blue balloons and limp white streamers. Shoulder blades shifting and bunching under the crisp white of his shirt.

Jean stood at the open door, red light of dusk filtering around him, not finding the heart to move for a second.

__

Weird.

"Sure thing… Beks."

Otabek turned his chin over his shoulder to give him a small smirk.

———

As the sun set, the kids arrived, well-dressed by their parents for an evening of what was essentially unpaid church babysitting. They littered the inside of the hall, mostly sticking in gender segregated packs or running wild off the walls on orange juice and the Top 40 Kid’s Worship Playlist. Besides the local pastor (not Jean’s, this was a protestant church, he was here strictly for the volunteer hours) and his wife, he and Otabek were the only other chaperones in the building. 

The pastor’s wife (matronly by all means of the word) seemed to have the majority of the crowd under control, making Jean feel a little superfluous. He and Otabek hung back near the hallway to the washrooms as they surveyed the three to four-foot tall crowd being herded by the portly woman.

He wonder how it made Otabek feel, hanging around so many kids? The other skater tended to stick to himself in practice, but really seemed to have little qualms interacting when required. Jean hadn’t quite figured him out yet. They slept in the same room, trained at the same rink, even shared the same tutor. They were friends? But how can you be friends with someone you so barely knew? Then again Jean somehow doubted anyone knew Otabek that well. He could always hit up that Leo kid, see what he knew? Maybe get a hold of his SNS account, because Jean refused to believe Otabek didn’t have one as he claimed…

With the thought, Jean reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulling up his home screen (wallpaper an apt smiling picture of his beautiful girlfriend on their most recent family outing to Niagra Falls), and thumbing over to his camera app.

“Hey, Beks, let’s take a…“ he turned to his left to find Otabek had all but vanished, “…selfie.”

Jean looked back to the crowd, the pastor joining in on what looked to be an attempt at the Macarana for a crowd of millennials too young to understand what the motions meant. He looked back to the hallway. Shrugging to himself, he moved passed the washrooms and around the corner hall of the building.

The light in the area of the church hall was dim, old fluorescent tubes filled with bugs, flickering as he passed. The hallway opened into a kitchenette, the door to the back of the lot slightly ajar as the cool spring air fled inside. Through the thin line of dim light he could just see the silhouette of Otabek’s shoulders, the other teen seated on the concrete back steps of the building. Head hung low.

The realization hit Jean all of a sudden: Otabek had probably been overwhelmed, poor kid. Coming from Kazakhstan or wherever, there probably weren’t very many people congregating en masse. Just horses and nomads or something; Jean thought hazily back to his geography text books. But Jean was his friend right? And friends help friends. Yeah, they help them and get to know their strengths and weakness, teach them about new cultures, they—

A metallic flick, flick, hiss and soft red flame brought Jean back into reality.

Without thinking he pushed the door aside with a loud thump. Otabek turned immediately at the noise, lighter still in one hand, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, face marred with a rare brand of shock.

“Beks! What the hell?!”

Jean stammered out the curse, stepping out onto the darkened stoop. Otabek’s shock slowly melted into his usual stoicism as he studied Jean’s face in the low light. 

He shrugged.

There was an awkward silence, some unspoken battle of morals; Jean could turn on his heel right this second, go back into the hall and snitch on the other teen, cigarette still captured between his lips. He could do that. But Jean was his friend, right?

Otabek, seemingly sensing Jean’s internal struggle (not that it was hard given the other teen was quite actively shifting his body weight from foot-to-foot), gave the lighter another flick, illuminating his face in a soft red light before taking a long drag.

There was another short silence.

Wordlessly, Jean closed the door behind him, taking a seat on the stoop next to Otabek. Back already stiff with the prospect of being implicit with something so sordid. If his parents knew…

There was a soft push of an elbow at his ribs but he was too lost in his head…

His parents, if they found out, Otabek was outta there. There was that one time they caught one of the older skaters at the rink playing tonsil hockey with that speed skater, and Jean wasn’t even sure if they could show their face in Ontario ever again let alone—

“Jean.”

Otabek’s voice was close to his ear. Close enough to feel a soft puff of hot breath in contrast to the cool air around him.

Turning, Jean noticed the light cigarette slowly training smoke from where it sat innocently between Otabek’s fingers, hand flinching forward in some wordless offering.

Jean stared at the cigarette. Then back to Otabek’s face.

If anyone had asked him in retrospect why he had taken the offered smoke he would have said it had something to do with the way Otabek looked at him. That dark gaze, intense and trusting. 

_Friends?_

Jean wrote the slight tremor in his hand off with the brisk chill as his fingers met Otabek’s own. Touch as hot as the smouldering ember, before taking the cigarette between his own fingers. He took a moment to examine the thing; blue ‘Belmont’ stamped in tiny filigree near the filter, before echoing the movement Otabek gave just a moment ago, and inhaling deeply.

His eyes filled almost immediately with tears, smoke rushing into his lungs, his throat, his nose. Burning as it went. Jean coughed roughly, cigarette flying out of his mouth to hit the concrete with an angry strike of embers.

“Ah,” cough, “sorry, I…”

Otabek made some kind of noise that might have been a chuckle, stepping up and reaching forward to scoop the cigarette back up off the ground. Jean, through his tears, could still see how the seams of his slacks fit tight across his hips. He coughed again weakly.

Without seeming to mind, Otabek brought the cigarette back up to his lips, taking a short drag and blowing the smoke outward above him.

“So, uh…” Jean wiped the corner of his eye with a sleeve, “why ya out here, Beks?”

Another drag of a cigarette prefaced his response. Otabek shrugged.

“Just relaxing.”

Jean nodded slowly, making his fingers into a basket on his knees which he brought up close to his chest.

“And you, uh,” he gestured vaguely to the cigarette in Otabek’s hand, the small red ember reflecting back in his dark eyes, “do this to relax?”

Another shrug.

“I guess. Sometimes.”

He took another drag, Jean’s eyes adjusting enough to the low light to catch how the other skater blew the smoke out of his nose like a dragon. Grey wisps catching around his sharp cheekbones before disappearing up into the night.

“What do you do, Jean?”

The smoke trailed and traced around the Kazakh’s jaw. Jean following it’s path with wide blue eyes.

“What do I what?” Jean asked dumbly back, gaze jolting back to Otabek’s face.

“To relax.” He added gently in a way that reminded Jean a little of the way his mother would talk to the novices at the rink.

Well, screw that. Jean thought indignantly. He had no reason to be scared of Otabek right? So he smoked, big deal. Lot of people smoked. Jean’s father once gave him a crisp green twenty dollar note to not tell Maman about the pack of Canadian Classics hidden in the glove box of his truck. Not a big deal at all.

Jean exhaled, finding his confidence again he took the cigarette back from Otabek midway before it met the other teen’s lips.

“Well, I skate, mostly.” He took another drag, more careful this time to let the smoke rest in the back of his throat for a moment. He exhaled a long stream, eyes still watering but thankfully no cough.

“And well,” he looked shiftily to Otabek, passing the cigarette back to the other skater, “I have this collection of CDs you know, like, rejects from the rink. I listen to those sometimes. Alone obviously. Maman and Papa don’t like that kind of thing. But yeah, yeah… listen to music.”

Jean nodded to himself, finding confidence in his own answer and the slightly intrigued look from Otabek who rolled the cigarette between his middle and index finger.

“What type of music?”

Jean, oblivious to the gravity of the question started rattling off band names, known only through the black sharpie on the surface of the self-burnt CDs.

“Uh, you know like, Thirty Second to Mars, U2…”

Otabek’s face visibly soured. Jean stammered to add, “Coldplay, some Eminem.”

The Kazakh’s face softened a little into a flat expression.

Jean fiddled with the cuffs of his dress shirt with sweaty hands.

“Um, The Ramones?”

Jean finished with a grimace. He can’t remember who that CD had belonged to, some Junior who used to wear band shirts and come to practice in ripped jeans much to the disdain of his coaches. His time under his parents coaching was pretty short lived.

Jean was ultimately relieved when the tension in Otabek’s face melted away entirely. Nodding softly one lock of dark hair fell in front of his face. Taking one final drag he stubbed the smouldering filter out on the concrete, flicking it into the hedge lining the back of the church hall.

Without another word he stood, stepping down onto the church lawn.

“You wanna know what I do to relax right?”

Otabek turned on his heel to look down at Jean still seated on the stoop.

Jean nodded, jumping down the last two steps to join Otabek, following as he lead him around the side of the building.

It was even darker here, wedged between the tall fence flanking the building and the brick expanse of the hall. Jean looked over the shorter teens shoulder, watching as he leant down to an almost entirely concealed trap door. The basement, Jean realized. The building must have been pretty old because it was one of those heavy iron trap-doors they put on bomb-shelters in the 50’s.

“Whoah, how’d you even find this?”

He whispered, now keenly aware that just a few feet above his head were the windows where the dance, and consequently the other chaperones, waited. The echoey screams of kids and midi-beats just faintly registering through the thick, double-paned windows.

Otabek mustn’t have heard him, as with a small grunt, levering his heels on the edge of the jam, he pulled up and open the basement door. The faint musty scent of wood and paper filtering up through the air. Jean stared down into the pitch black, and without having to be asked, pulled out his phone and shone his light down into the dead air. White light of the iPhone catching on motes of dust and spider webs.

Without further preamble, Otabek had already climbed down the short ladder to jump into the basement below.

Jean hesitated, light shining downward at his rink mate whom looked up to him. Slowly Otabek raised a hand out of the door, gesturing for Jean to take it.

“So,” Otabek said, voice echoing a little as it bounced off the confines of the basement, “Are we friends, or not?”

Jean’s face broke out into a massive grin. White teeth straight and shining as he grabbed the Kazakh’s hand, forgoing the ladder entirely and jumping down into the basement. The light of his iPhone tremored a little, trapped between their bodies as Otabek caught him midstep.

There was another weird moment, Jean’s heart beating hard through his white shirt, chest bumping against Otabek’s as he caught his balance on the cold concrete. Releasing his hand, Otabek reached up to close the basement door back on them.

Jean gripped his iPhone, raising it to part the darkness, revealing mostly just old furniture covered in moldy sheets; a broken organ, some rotting sheet music. The scuffling and dull thump of children’s shoes on wooden floor boards above them the only indicator they were still in the same hall they had entered earlier that evening. 

Looking up, Jean reached for the hanging light switch, clicking on a dull orange bulb that hung from the ceiling. In the soft light, the basement suddenly seemed a lot smaller, most of the space entirely taken up with junk. His nose wrinkled as he moved into a small clearing of furniture below the light bulb.

“Whoah, gross, there must be a skunk burrow down here or something.”

He turned back to see Otabek squatting over a small side table, upturned ziplock back in hand as he dumped a small pile of hairy keef onto an open paper.

Jean blushed in realisation.

“Oh.”

He approached Otabek warily, standing over his shoulder before kneeling on the concrete next to him. He watched he hypnotic way his fingers rolled and re-rolled the finely ground plant until it settled as a perfect stick between the thin rolling paper. Jean’s blue eyes followed as Otabek brought the joint up to his lips, small pink tongue flicking out to lick across the glue. With a final roll, Otabek produced a thin but perfectly formed joint between two fingers.

Jean looked back to the ziplock bag, a few spare filters, a couple of Belmonts and Zig Zags laying innocently inside.

“Where did you…?”

Otabek shrugged, putting the joint between his lips he produced his lighter again. Giving a few unsuccessful ‘flicks’ of the cartridge.

“You know that guy who runs the zambonee on Tuesdays?”

He said with half closed lips, flicking the lighter again, this time drawing a flame enough to light the paper end of the joint.

“Yeah, but how did you…?”

Jean continued, though his words were lost on his lips as the small candle flame at the end of joint receded leaving a small red ember which crackled to life as Otabek took a long inhale. Holding the smoke for a few seconds, he breathed it out the same way he did the tobacco smoke. Nostrils alighting like some kind of whimsical Kazakh dragon as the smoke filtered upward in the stale air.

Jean couldn’t help but chuckle at the image, Otabek shaking his head with something that looked like a small smile and passing the joint over the Jean.

Their fingers lingered there, meeting each other’s gaze.

“You really are something, Beks.”

That comment was met by a confused look.

“What do you mean?” Jean accepted the joint. The Canadian throwing all caution to the wind and raising it steadily to his chapped lips.

“I mean just,” he licked his lips, “you know, you’re quiet and stuff but deep down you’re pretty…”

Without intending to he inhaled, fragrant smoke shooting up into his nose and mouth. He wheezed in a breath, fighting against the smoke scratching at his throat, “…cool.”

He exhaled the smoke with a splutter, coughing again. His eyes already felt too heavy for his skull. He barely even breathed it in, what the hell?  Jean thrust the joint to Otabek, a tinge of pink at the other teens ears to match the increasingly pink tone of the white’s of his eyes.

“I…” Otabek rolled the joint over between his fingers, “…think you’re cool too.”

Jean choked on his own spit, spluttering out another fit of coughs.

Cool? Otabek thought he was cool? The guy who snuck out of chaperoning an elementary school dance to smoke cigarettes and get baked? He spluttered again painfully, not quiet sure what to make of this whole thing. This situation he was in.

Before he had even a moment more to process, Otabek’s face was directly in front of his own, so close he could almost feel the hot ember of the joint that hung from the corner of his mouth.

“Here,” wide palms came to cradle either side of his face, “It’s easier this way.”

Jean's eyes grew to the size of saucers as Otabek took a deep inhale from the joint, releasing one hand from the side of Jean's face he plucked away the joint from his own lips, placing it aside on the end table.

That large, warm hand returned to Jean's jaw, alighting it with an almost electric touch. His mouth was already half parted when Otabek leaned in close. 

So close. 

Close enough that their lips were separated by only body heat as Otabek exhaled the cool smoke into Jean's mouth.

Jean inhaled sharply at the proximity, hands clenched on the knees of his slacks where he knelt on the basement floor.

The smoke rushed into his lungs; far less harsh this time…

And with the exhale Jean crashes his lips into Otabek's, sending the smaller skater sprawling onto the ground bellow him.

He didn't know why he did it. His was stoned, whatever. People do crazy stuff when they were stoned, right? He’d only had one and a half lungfuls of smoke but that hardly mattered. Besides it's not like he had ever kissed Bella like this, not a chance, he was saving himself for--

Jean startled as he felt Otabek's lips moving against his own. Warm and a little wet. And soft, way too soft. He groaned a little, his own hands had blindly migrated to the front of Otabek's shirt, gripping and creasing the clean fabric. Lifting Otabek’s torso up and off the concrete entirely. Otabek's hands were still cradling his face, stroking his cheeks gently before migrating upward to settle in his dark hair. He couldn't think straight. The basement was too hot all of a sudden, his head clouded with smoke and--

Jean groaned as Otabek's fingers tugged a little at his scalp, opening is mouth to that same pink tongue he had seen earlier. Dipping between Jean's lips, Otabek licked a stripe across his front teeth. Jean, not knowing what to do just opened his mouth wide, hands gripping even tighter at the firm muscles below Otabek's dress shirt. He may have had Otabek sandwiched into concrete, long legs between short, powerful thighs, but there was no question to whom was in control in that moment. As Otabek's tongue rubbed against his own, the Kazakh's pelvis raised to slowly grind into him, thick outline of his cock pressed into Jean's hip bone.

Jean broke the kiss, struggling for breath in the smoked-out basement.

He looked down at Otabek, the other teens dark hair askew such that it hung over his brow. Dark eyes unbelievably intense. A light dusting of pink across his cheeks. Jean unclenched his hands from Otabek's shirt. They moved on their own, reaching down to palm at Otabek's cock through the light material of his slacks.

_What was he even doing? What the hell was he doing?_

His heart was beating so fast he thought he would die. But he couldn’t stop smiling. He was having fun.

_Crisse._

Suddenly Otabek's hand was on his own cock, straining hard against the polyester. There was a brief moment of eye contact. Short puffs of heavy breathing, before both suddenly spurred into motion. Buttons were roughly popped outward, zippers dragged down, and underwear pushed aside. Their breath mingled, tinged with smoke and dust leaking down from the creaking floorboards above them. Otabek scrambled upward, knees still parted with Jean kneeling between them.

Their lips crashed together again, clumsy hands dipping into each others boxing and pulling their respective cocks free. Jean pulled free of the kiss, forehead bumping against Otabek’s as he glanced downward. His own hand, long fingers wrapped around Otabek’s cock. Circumcised, unlike his own, and a shade darker than the skin of his body, it jutted up through dark curls, balls trapped by the waist band of his black boxers.

It was bigger, thicker in his palm than his own, the girth unfamiliar to his grasp.

He felt the hand on his own cock release, palm coming up to his face.

“Spit.”

Otabek whispered, slightly out of breath. Jean could only obey, spitting, before leaning forward to lick his tongue wide over the salty palm of Otabek’s hand. The other teen inhaled sharply, watching as Jean licked a wet stripe, all the way from the base of his palm to the tip of his middle finger. Pupil’s dilating.

The hand was gone suddenly, leaving Jean’s mouth open and waiting. Otabek’s palm, slick with spit was on his cock, stroking up and down slowly. He watched Otabek’s face shift, fascinated at the movement of Jean’s foreskin over the head of his cock and back.

Jean shuddered, not thinking to spit into his own hand he gripped Otabek’s cock roughly. The head already leaking precum, musky scent breaking through the sharp smell of marijuana and stale interior of the basement. Otabek’s chin was tilted upward, staring at him, hand moving blindly up and down.

“Kiss me.”

Jean grinned.

“Sure thing, Beks.”

Lips mashed together, and suddenly whatever restraint either teen had broke. They were jerking each other off at a furious pace. Grunts and moans echoing in the corners of the basement. Light headed from smoke, eyes blood shot. At some point Otabek’s other hand dipped into Jean’s clean white boxers, gripping his balls tight. Jean’s other hand was curled around the back of Otabek’s neck, fingers caught in the dark hair of his name as he hungrily licked and bite his lips.

It didn’t last much longer after that.

Moaning and shuddering, Jean was the first to break. Cursing Jesus, Mary, God, whoever. His cum covered Otabek’s knuckles. Otabek’s hips lifted thrusting up into Jean’s tight fist with slick noises, quiet if not for short pants and moans. He broke the kiss, face buried into the crook of Jean’s neck as he came in short spurts. Hot cum coating Jean’s hand and trickling down to catch on the hair at the base of his cock.

Jean’s own heartbeat was loud in his ears as he pulled back. He stared down at his own palm, filthy white smears of cooling cum coating his fingers. Otabek had reached over to wipe his own hand on a nearby discarded sheet.

There was a sudden bubbling giggle. Then full laughter. Loud and suspended in the thick air of the basement.

Jean realized it was his own.

Collapsing in a fit of giggles he fell back onto Otabek, forcing the other teen again onto his back. Nose buried in the dirtied, white cotton of his dress shirt. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Two warm arms surrounded him. A voice soft at his ear.

“Jean.”

The Canadian choked back another giggle, snickering under his breath as he lifted his head just enough to see Otabek’s wide-eyed expression. His head was turned to the side, staring into the corner of the room at a rustling pile of white-and-black fur.

“Is that a skunk?”

Jean buried his head back into Otabek’s chest and snickered.

———

“Jean-Jacques Leroy!” 

His mother’s voice ripped through the quiet church hall, long since cleared of children. Only drooping streamers and empty juice boxes remaining.

”Trespassing?!”

They sat side by side in plastic chairs, flanked by the pastor’s wife, chubby arms crossed over the floral print of her bosom. Both wreaking of skunk spray, white shirt’s dirtied with dust, pant seams twisted and crinkled. Otabek’s was cache kicked under a table somewhere in the basement. Luckily they hadn’t found the lighter in his pocket.

It was a grave situation none-the-less, but Jean, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t stop grinning. He swallowed his lips, trying to regain his composure in the wake of his mother’s fury.

“It was an accident!”

He protested, face contorting into something he thought might have looked convincing.

“An accident?”, she echoed, unconvinced. Red hair under her tongue, almost as red as her face.

Jean shifted in his chair, staring from his mother’s face, to the pastor’s wife, then to his own scuffed shoes.

“We were just—“

A far calmer, composed voice interrupted him.

“Getting chairs.”

Otabek’s face was stoic as normal. He would have looked totally out of place in the interrogation if not for his blood shot eyes and ruffled clothing. Collar unfastened such that, from where Jean sat, he could just catch a glimpse of the smooth skin of his chest. Breathing steady within his ribs.

“We were getting more chairs for the hall, I thought they’d be more in the basement.”

Otabek demurred, hanging his head in some kind of unspoken apology.

Jean’s mother shifted to her other foot, gaze narrowing.

“So this was your idea?”

Jean’s grin was gone. He swallowed against his dry throat. Otabek’s gaze glued to the floor in front of him.

“No!” he interrupted before his mother could continue with a scolding, or worse. She turned her gaze back on her son, face growing steadily more red.

Jean shook his head vehemently.

“No, it was my fault. Beks he just…” he turned his gaze back to the other teen, dark eyes boring holes into the wooden floorboards, “He’s not from here you know, I was just trying to help him out cause he’s my friend, you know?”

Jean looked into his mother’s eyes, with the most pleading expression he could muster.

“I should have told him not to look there. I didn’t mean to embarrass him in front of everyone. Sorry, Maman.”

The rage behind his mother’s eyes seemed to dissuade a little at the apology. Years of good behaviour not yet undone with one night’s mistake (or so Jean hoped). Regardless, Jean had no doubt the ramifications from his father would be swift and severe. But the heat was off Otabek at least.

He exhaled slowly, the pastor moving over with a soft expression.

“Well you know what they say, boys will be boys,” he waved to wife to move aside, the stern woman uncrossing her arms and heading back into hall, “and besides Nathalie, no harm done! At least now I have a reason to call animal control. Stop anymore of those burrows, eh?”

Jean’s mother, glanced over to the pastor with a sigh, shaking her head as if his forgiveness didn’t matter. Catholic shame stronger than any Protestant absolution.

“Sorry for the trouble. We’ll be going now. Boys?”

She clipped, turning on her heel and letting the two teens trail behind her, exiting the church hall and back into the clean Spring air.

Jean’s swallowed a smirk, shoulder’s bumped against Otabek’s, and their eyes met. The Kazakh gave the smallest smile back.

The fun had only just begun.

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to @happyfluids for [fan-art](http://happyfluids.tumblr.com/post/165257275895/shotgunning-based-on-fic) of this chapter.


	2. THE CLUB IS OPEN

———

Summer in Toronto was hot that year. The cathedral wasn’t air-conditioned, leaving them sticky in their high collared shirts, sweat slowly dribbling down their chests and backs, skin sticking to thin cotton. They'd always sit in the very back pew at Mass. Shoulder to shoulder, despite the heat. Away from where his parents would have notice the white cord of the earbuds shared between them. 

Over the Summer, Jean's pilfered CD collection had been almost done away with entirely in favor of flash drives filled with playlists and remixes. He had no idea where Otabek found this stuff, but he listened to it anyway. Nodding his head along to the beat in the back seat on the way to practice. Otabek next to him in stoic silence. Jean's father narrowing his eyes but saying nothing.

Jean's shoulders grew wider, his laugh grew louder and his jumps flew higher and faster than ever. And with each day his confidence swelled. The change wasn't unnoticed by his parents. But given his recent mastery of the quad salchow over the Summer, they left their concerns unaddressed.

As long as he kept smiling, saying grace on Sundays, and landing his jumps it seemed they'd tolerate his growing attitude. 

Boys will be boys.

And with the long days of Summer in full swing, Jean and Otabek grew from good friends to best friends. Best friends whom crawled into each other's beds at night, rubbing and rutting their hard-ons through the flannel of their pajama bottoms, tongues slowly licking at each others lips until somebody would inevitably orgasm with a hot exhalation or whimpered curse.

It never really went further than that. Not that it needed to. Jean was saving himself for marriage after all. 

Well, that’s what he told himself. And that's as much as he would say to Isabella at least as he held her hand and kissed her goodnight on the cheek. The silhouette of a head-phoned figure watching through the dark room from the window above.

More often than not, Jean would waltz back into his room after his dates with Isabella to find Otabek asleep, still in headphones, hair mussed in ten different directions. The tension in his face seemed to relieve itself in sleep, and despite them being almost the same age, Otabek seemed much younger in those moments. He stirred lightly as Jean dips his fingers under the headphone band, slipping them off gently and replacing them on the end table that separated their single beds. Only one was used more often than not.

Jean laid next to him over the covers, nose nuzzling in his soft, dark hair, a little wild at the ends from sleep. Otabek was a light sleeper. He turned over in Jean’s arms with a grumble, top of his head bumping under Jean’s chin. He didn’t flinch as Otabek’s hand came up, cuff trapped over his fingers to wipe away the red lipstick on his jaw.

Otabek would grumble something sleepily (he was never sure if it was English or not), before soundlessly falling back into sleep.

And like this, onward the season marched.

But as close as they got, Jean knew he could never crack all Otabek’s secrets. Otabek was cool and mysterious and Jean was… Jean wasn’t really sure what he was sometimes.

It wasn’t until deep into the months of living together Jean had even realized, one night as he stumbled from the bathroom, that Otabek was no longer in his bed. His first reaction was panic, until he realized the leather jacket gone from the hook on the door and the empty place below his bed where his boots were kept. The Otabek-sized indent in his bed already cold.

There was an equally cold pang in his chest, though Jean shrugged it away.

And so Jean, good Jean, clever Jean, the next Friday night after practice, followed Otabek up the stairs to their bedroom, trying to hide the grin on his lips.

“Where ya going tonight, Beks?”

Otabek didn’t even turn back; if he had caught onto the heavy-handed implication in Jean’s words he didn’t let on.

“I’m tired. Bed.”

Was all he responded, heading into the darkened room and pulling off his shirt and sweater.

Jean lingered in the doorway a second, watching Otabek’s budding muscles shift in the low light, only the subdued street lighting from the outside window illuminating his tanned skin. He gave a faux yawn, closing the door behind him.

“Yeah, practice was brutal today! All that quad training, I’m exha—“

Jean didn’t have time to finish his sentence as the smaller skater grabbed him by the elbows and had him on his back on his mattress in less than a heartbeat. Otabek’s breath was hot on his neck, and his hand thrust down into Jean’s sweatpants, squeezing his soft cock HARD.

Jean gasped, wriggling out of Otabek’s grip just a little. The Kazakh straddling him on the bed, all dark eyes and rough fingers. 

Crisse, he was so hard already.

“Jean. Stop talking.”

Was all Otabek said, all he had to say.

Jean gasped and shuddered as Otabek’s hand began to move slowly on his cock.

———

It took two hand jobs and almost an hour of necking to get Jean Jacques Leroy to sleep. Otabek waited until Jean’s breath was deep and even in his ear; long arms cradling him close to his chest under the covers. 

Otabek gave a deep exhale, extracted himself from the other teen’s hold gently. Careful not to dip the mattress too hard he dipped his barefeet back onto the plush carpet, sparing one last glance at Jean’s soft face in the darkened room. 

His hood was pulled up over his head, leather jacket overtop, as he laced up his Doc Marten’s and eyed the digital clock on their shared dresser.

12:13 am

He was going to be late.

Otabek kept his footsteps light as he slowly crept from the room and down the darkened hallway. Sounds of the downstairs television, and muffled commentary of hockey playbacks the only indication Jean’s father had not yet gone to bed, or more likely had fallen asleep on the recliner.

Slipping into the bathroom, he closed the door behind himself with a soft click. He levered up the window, checking his pockets one last time before ducking his head under the jam.

“Where are you going?”

Otabek bristled from behind his hoodie. Still straddling the window sill, he turned back to see Jean standing tall in the doorway. How someone so tall and gangly could move with such grace and silence was beyond Otabek in that moment.

He frowned, turning his head such that most of his face was hidden again by his hood.

“Out.”

Jean did waver one bit, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind himself.

“Oh yeah?”

He responded, drawing a little closer to Otabek’s perch. It was then Otabek noticed that Jean was fully dressed. Decked out in a high buttoned polo, cord sweater, boot-cut blue jeans and pointy-tipped dress shoes. The same shoes he wore on Sundays.

Otabek’s mouth turned into a thin, flat line at his assessment. He already knew what Jean was going to ask.

“And you’re not gonna bring your best friend along, Beks?” Jean crooned, “Best buds? Pals?”

Jean’s hand came up to pull up his hood just a little; enough to make eye contact with Otabek who stared up at him. One dark lock of hair hanging over his brow.

He clicked his tongue just slightly (a habit he may or may not have picked up from Jean).

“Alright, you can come. Just…”

JJ’s arms were around him immediately in a bear hug, knocking him slightly off balance on the window sill. He shot one hand up to catch the edge of the window frame before he over balanced entirely.

Noticing this JJ, pulled away, both hands strong and steadying on Otabek’s shoulders.

“Promise I’ll be good!” 

He beamed not realizing the irony of the statement.

So there they were, past midnight, shimmying down the Leroy drainpipe and sneaking out into the alley connecting the many carbon-copy houses of the suburb.

“So where are we going, Beks?”

Jean said quietly, heart already beating fast in his chest at the thrill of it all.

“Just… out.”

Was all Otabek responded with, glancing back at Jean with enough of an eye to let him know now was not the time for conversation. Jean just grinned back. And thus followed Otabek in almost-silence, humming under his breath as they migrated through the alleyways and out into an adjacent street.

“Oi! Altin!”

A voice registered over the quiet of the neighbourhood, both teens turning to the sound.

Jean recognized him quickly. The Albertan stoner guy who ran the Zamboni on Tuesdays, from Red Deer or Medicine Hat or Lethbridge or whatever. T-shirt ripped in a way where Jean wasn’t sure if it was purposeful or not. He was standing next to a beat up GM truck, blue and mottled with rust finished with balding all-season tyres. Jean’s nose crinkled.

The two other kids behind them (and Jean figured they were kids cause they can’t have been that much older than he or Otabek) seeming to notice him first, one offering an elbow to Zamboni Guy, his eyes immediately glued onto Jean, a scowl covering his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Altin? That Leroy kid?”

He scoffed, running a hand through his orangey-bleached hair.

Jean could hear Otabek clicked his tongue under his breath, shifting onto the balls of his feet. Looking over Otabek’s shoulder, he glanced back to the two other punkish looking kids who seemed mostly just bored. Passing a cigarette between each other.

The Zamboni Guy took a step closer, one finger raised to point at Jean threateningly.

“You really think I’m gonna let you drag that fucking chongo along?”

Even though Jean couldn’t see Otabek’s face, he could almost sense his scowl. Dark brows drawing inward to glare a hole almost through Zamboni Guy’s skull. The punks behind him shifted uneasily, glancing between each other.

“He’s not coming. I’m not coming.”

Otabek said simply, pushing his hood up just a little to glare a little harder at Zamboni Guy.

“You’re really pushing it Altin.”

He grit out through his teeth as the staring match continued.

Jean refrained from backing out of the situation entirely, clenching his fists behind his back (just in case). In the distance a car alarm sounded, a few dog howling in response.

“So are we going, or not?”

Otabek deadpanned. 

And then it was over. Zamboni guy rolling his eyes dramatically, turning on his heel back to his beat-up truck.

“Fine. Fuck.” He waved his hand over his shoulder as he wrenched open the door of the truck, “At least lend him a fucking shirt or something.”

Otabek nodded under his hood. Before Jean could muster any thanks, Otabek was shucking off his leather jacket and pushing it into his chest.

———

The cuffs of the leather jacket rode high in his wrists. Jean tried to pulled them down over his sweater to no avail. He was hot already, cool night air unable to penetrate the leather jacket zipped up-high against his neck, polo collar still peaking out the top.

A few people littered around the fenced off alley next to them, smoking cigarettes and cackling to each other. Some in all black, much like Otabek, or Zamboni Guy or his friends, but every so often a bright flash of neon would float into the mix.

He was out of his element, but Otabek seemed to be doing fine. Lingering in the queue next to him, Jean could almost swear he was humming under his breath, toe tapping just slightly against the cracked pavement as they waited. 

The door they waited in front of was all black with white paint pen scrawling out the threat of ‘NO MINORS’. The only other notable establishment a closed off pay-by-slice place with buzzing neon lights. There were no signs, but if Jean careened his neck he could see the rainbow flash of light seep out of the black painted windows on the third floor.

There was the slightest _doof doof_ that rattled the air the closer they got to the door. Jean felt his palms start to sweat.

Zamboni Guy and his friends were at the door first, bald, yet heavily bearded bouncer in front of them giving the Guy a sour look. He lifted his index finger and thumb into a square, and Jean watched in confusion as they began to pull free their wallets. They seemed to be undergoing some unspoken assessment before the bouncer grunted, pulling free the black door to reveal a steep staircase up to the third floor. The _doof doof_ was significantly louder, hitting Jean in the face like a solid mass of noise.

How would Otabek even find a place like this (whatever it was)? Where were they even? Somewhere in downtown Toronto he figured but… Jean was disorientated, and all of a sudden he felt a little sick. Out of his depth. Confidence draining quickly by the second like blood from a deep wound. He wanted to pull on Otabek’s sleeve and let him know but— 

The door closed behind the others in their little group and it was just him and Otabek staring down the bouncer. The big man’s eyes flickering back over Otabek who had pulled his hood down entirely at the inspection. Otabek pulled free his own wallet from the back of his jeans, producing a white card printed with ‘CALIFORNIA’ with some shitty black and white mugshot of Otabek on the front.

The bouncer accepted the ridiculous fake ID with little concern, not evening glancing at the thing, just turning it over his hand.

“You playing tonight Altin?”

Otabek nodded solemnly, accepting back the card he nodded his thanks before walking through the doorway. Jean almost wanted to scoff at the ridiculousness of it all.

Just the same, Jean nodded, a little too afraid to say anything else as he trailed after Otabek… only to be met by a thick tattooed arm held out in front of his chest to stop him.

“Haven’t seen you before bud.”

Was all the bouncer said. Jean half expected Otabek to keep walking up the stairs, but instead turned on his heel in the doorway.

“He’s with me.”

Otabek stated in a far more authoritarian way Jean would have to a man that much bigger than the two of them combined.

“You’re with this guy?”

The bouncer turned his beard over his shoulder incredulously. Otabek’s face resolved into the same expression he had seen him use with Zamboni Guy earlier in the night. Angular face knotting in some incredibly intimidating look that somehow made him seem a lot older and a lot more frightening than some teenage figure skater. All dark hair, dark eyes and bottled up intensity. That same look he gave Jean sometimes when he shoved his hand down his pants after practice.

Jean’s heart did a weird little flip.

The bouncer grunted, turning back to Jean whom took a could of steps back at the sudden noise, almost bumping back into the neon-dressed crowd behind him.

“What’s your name, bud?”

Jean stammered, “Uh, J—“

“Jay.”

Otabek interrupted with a pointed look at Jean, whom wilted a little under those eyes. Jean himself suddenly remembering this wasn’t really a place he wanted his real name floating around. He nodded dumbly.

“Jay?”

The bouncer snorted as if he wasn’t convinced one bit.

Jean nodded again with more vigor this time, “Exactly. Jay Jay. JJ.”

Jean was half expecting to be thrown out on his ass in that moment, the look the bouncer gave him was positively dry. There was one more glance, up and down, and a long exhalation before the bouncer let his arm fall to his side ushering Jean inside.

“Really?”

Jean couldn’t help but chirp with a smile. Otabek looked vaguely like he was going to strangle him, and before the bouncer could interrupt, pulled Jean in hard by the leather jacket and slammed the heavy door behind them.

The air was thick with smoke and stale beer as they climbed the stairs. There was no railing and there was already broken glass littering the floor, but Otabek, seemingly at home, skipped every second step to the top landing. He opened his mouth as if he were to say something to Jean, but stopped half way, shaking his head to himself.

Jean reached out to grip the Kazakh’s shoulder, squeezing through the black material of the hoodie.

“Hey,” he said softer than he had intended, “Thanks, Beks.”

Otabek’s face softened.

The door on the landing blasted open, and the rattling bass in the hallway became a chaotic roar of noise. So loud Jean had to steady himself a moment.

A group of revellers pushed past him, all sweat and laughter as Otabek slipped into the club. Jean, not knowing what else to do, grabbed onto the bottom hem of Otabek’s hoodie, following him into the mess. The bass vibrated through Jean’s skull hard and fast, brightly coloured lights whizzing around in disorientating patterns. He gripped onto Otabek all the harder as the other skater sidled up to the bar.

The room was TINY, but Jean wouldn’t be surprised if there were more than 100 people cramped into the space. It wasn’t much bigger than his family’s living room. All black painted walls, blacked out windows, the only decoration to speak of a massive illuminated sign reading ‘THE CLUB IS OPEN’ in bold font which hung above an elevated DJ stage. The washrooms didn’t have doors.

“Altin what the fuck!” 

He vaguely heard the bartender yell over the crowd, moving past crates of beer and open coolers to where Otabek was standing, “You’re set started 15 minutes ago!”

“Sorry.”

Otabek shouted back, his face a little tighter now. The bartender shook his head, turning and producing a neon pink, plastic shot glass filled with... something. Jean’s eyes widened a little as Otabek kicked back the liquid with one smooth movement. Thick column of his neck smooth in the purplish lighting that haloed him. Adam’s apple bobbing just a little with a swallow.

The music thumped louder in Jean's ears, or maybe that was his heartbeat. It was hard to tell.

Jean wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation between Otabek and the bartender anymore, only hearing a muffled “JJ” and “my tab” before he started back out into the wall of people packed onto the tiny dance floor.

Jean blinked once. Then twice. Panic immediately starting to culminate in his chest. A plastic shot glass was pushed against his elbow.

“Hey, JJ!” the bartender shouted, leaning closer over the cooler of ice behind the makeshift bar set up, “drink up, on the house.”

Jean was confused again for a second before he remembered; “Yeah, JJ. Me. Thanks.”

The bartender gave him a weird look, though retreated as Jean took the shot glass in an unsteady grip.

He looked back to where Otabek was sidling up on the stage, copping an angry look from the other DJ whom jammed a set of headphones over the teens head. His dark hair mussing down around his eyes.

The shot glass was still untouched in his hand when the music started. And it was only at that precise moment, when Otabek's head started bobbing to the beat, and the crowd began to explode into an even more irate movement, that Jean realised why they were there.

Where all those mixes on those flash drives came from.

Why every adult in contact with them outside the rink seemed to give him a free pass.

The beat dropped and the crowd went NUTS.

Almost unconsciously Jean brought the warm plastic up to his mouth and swallowed.

———

It was almost 2 am by the time Otabek finished his set. sweat dripping from the tip of his nose as he passed over the reigns to the next DJ. He chugged half a water bottle, trying not to let the additional shots pressed into his hand during his set go to his head.

He combed his gaze through the crowd and over the the bar.

No Jean.

Otabek grit his jaw, eyebrows knitting in worry. Maybe he shouldn’t have left his tab open… maybe he shouldn’t have let Jean come in the first place… _fuck…_

Otabek ran a hand through his sweaty mop of black hair, dark eyes still searching the ebbing and grinding crowd.

His concerns were immediately validated when a firm weight hit him in the back, long arms encasing his waist and a hot breath in his ear.

“Beks! That was,” Otabek could feel Jean lick his lips, inadvertently catching the shell of his ear, “amazing.”

Otabek frowned, grabbing both Jean’s arms and turning around to face him.

He wasn’t drunk at least, as far as Otabek could tell, but his brow was sweaty, hair sticking to his skin as his chest heaved in and out. He’d been dancing. Flashing blue and green lights caught in the blackness of his pupils.

Before he could open his mouth to pose anymore questions Jean was on him again, hugging him so tight he almost lost his breath.

"You okay Jean?"

Otabek managed to strain out over the music. Jean’s hands were shaking. He shifted his body against Otabek again with a sigh, hard cock suddenly pressed into the shorter teen’s stomach.

Without waiting for a response he grabbed Jean by both wrists hauling him through the crowd, sweat still trickling down the back of his neck under his hoodie. He pushed back through the interior door into the landing, fluorescent lights harsh after so long in the dark, multi-faceted flashing lights of the club.

Jean reattached himself with a laugh, weight pushing his back up against the side of the stairwell.

“So… cool… Beks.”

He bit his lip trying to ignore the way Jean was babbling against the wet skin of his neck, pelvis grinding into his stomach.

People pushed in and out of the stairwell, seemingly unconcerned with the two teenagers clinging to each other in the hall.

“Altin, good set buddy.”

Otabek looked over Jean’s shoulder to Zamboni Guy, pulling free a cigarette from his pocket and putting it against lips in some faux indifference to what was going on in front of him. Otabek put two and two together immediately.

"What'd you give him?"

Otabek said darkly, voice barely registering over the bass still resonating from the club beyond the door.

Zamboni Guy snickered, seemingly getting some enjoyment out of watching the Leroy’s oldest son giggle on Otabek’s shoulder. Like the fucking idiot didn’t realize it was the Leroy’s that paid his cheques at the rink.

"Just something to make him a bit more fun, ya know?"

Jean was pushed aside immediately, Otabek striding forward a cool two steps, grabbing the Guy by his collar and pushing him up against the wall. A few clubbers paused in the stairwell to look up a them.

"Whoah, whoah, whoah, okay! Okay chill!"

Otabek’s hand didn’t move from his collar, glare deepening.

"Just like quarter a cap of MDMA, he'll be over it in a few hours. Like I’d waste the good shit on him, fuck.”

Zamboni Guy snapped, bringing one hand off to slap away Otabek’s hand. Intimidating or not, Otabek was still a foot shorter than the guy, and considerably younger.

Otabek released him accordingly, looking down the steep stairwell to see the bouncer glancing up through the doorway at them. He clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"Beks…?”

Jean’s pouting lip partnered with his massively blown out pupils it made him look a little like a puppy as he stared down at Otabek, seemingly oblivious to the exchange with Zamboni guy.

Otabek grabbed Jean’s sweaty palm in his own.

"We're getting outta here."

Was all he offered as they head back down the stairs and into the considerably fresher air of the outdoors. Otabek’s ears were still buzzing uncomfortably with the relic of the club atmosphere. The alley way outside pretty much dead now as they walked along it further; Otabek’s fingers still interlocked with Jean’s.

“But I wanna to keep dancing. I wanna dance with you, Beks.”

Jean pouted some more as he was lead around a nearby corner.

"It's dead there anyway."

Otabek said more to himself than to the Canadian, pausing a moment to glance down the relatively empty street. They couldn’t go home, not now. Not with Jean the way he was. And as much as Zamboni Guy was an idiot, Albertan asshole, he was probably telling the truth. They only had to burn a couple hours before heading back anyway; Otabek would normally creep back before dawn regardless.

He released Jean’s hand gently, breaking away to linger outside an apartment building, rows of scooters and tied up bicycles lining the iron fence line. He pulled at the handlebars experimentally until one came free. It wasn’t really his style, but it’d do for now.

Otabek pulled the BMX away from the fence. Hoisting a leg over he looked at Jean expectantly. 

"Come on..."

Jean stood, shifting from foot to foot, still dressed in Otabek’s leather jacket in strange contrast to his blue jeans and pointy shoes.

“Uh, is that your bike, Beks?”

He looked down to the bike he was seated on then back up to Jean with a faux expression of realization.

“No.”

Otabek made no move to hop off the bicycle. Jean, not knowing what else to do, ran up with more enthusiasm than he had intended, and jumped onto the back pegs with almost enough force to knock the bike and Otabek’s over. Steadying himself he slapped his hands on top of the other teen’s shoulders for balance.

“Let’s go!”

He beamed. He thought he saw Otabek smile, pulling up his hood as he started pedalling.

———

As much as Jean’s heart was threatening to beat out of his chest, his mouth going dry, and his mind working at a million miles per hour, he was still with it enough to be well intimidated by the bar they now stood in.

It was a similar size to the club, though conversely in a basement this time. Tiny windows barred up entirely. There wasn’t a bouncer, just a guy at the door taking crumpled blue five dollar bills and writing X’s on the insides of patrons wrists.

But that wasn’t really what was janking with Jean’s mind set right now. It was the framed Play Girl posters on the walls, the case of perishing rubber dildos behind the bar, and the 90’s style gay porn playing on a grainy screen hung in the high corner of the room.

Jean swallowed hard as he made eye contact with one of the larger black dildos hanging behind the bar. He wasn’t quiet mentally, or physically, in the best place right now.

A plastic cup of water was pushed into his hand.

“Drink.”

Jean’s heavily clouded mind obeyed, heart thumping so hard. Otabek must hear it right? He must hear it even over the really loud, really weird 90’s pop remixes playing right now. It was weird. This place was so weird. But it was busy with punk kids similar to the ones in the club? How’d Otabek even know about… whatever this place was? How’d he know how to DJ?

DJ’ing… that music… Jean wished he could make music like that. Make music like that with Otabek? That sounded good. That sounded really good.

Jean finished choking back the water, some liquid dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, not realizing he had been staring at Otabek’s dark eyes and high cheek bones during his entire mental dialogue. Dramatic lighting painting him like a model in a hip magazine spread.

Otabek took the cup back, fingers making contact with Jean’s for just a second in a gesture that might have been intimate to anybody watching from the sidelines.

"Let's dance."

Otabek mouthed into his ear, and before Jean could respond he was letting himself be pushed onto what was arguably a dance floor.

There were no flashing lights this time, just a red lamp hanging from the roof, swinging in chaotic patterns with the movements of the dancers below it. Bodies shifting in and out under red and shadows. It made Jean think of snakes for a second, all black and writhing.

His nose crinkled; shoulders being jostled around the pit.

And Otabek was there's next to him. No, _in front_ of him. The remix cross-lapped onto the next track which dropped a little heavier; the movements of the crowd slowing, and Otabek’s starting from stasis, hips winding upward. The hoodie came off, Jean didn’t follow it’s movement, he was too busy staring down over the bridge of his nose at Otabek's _hips_. His jeans were hardly low cut, though still managed to hug over his ass in a way that made Jean stare and search for breath.

Up and around, up and around. 

It wasn't feminine, per se, and partnered with the broad shoulders and smooth back rippling under a black shirt it was anything but.

Jean himself wasn't moving, struck into temporary dumbness he just ebbed and flowed with the bodies around him. If Otabek noticed this he didn't seem to care. He pushed back.

Jean’s chest was flush with Otabek’s back, breath puffing uneven into the damp strands of his hair. He put his hands the only place that seemed logical, on Otabek's waist. The impossibly small space between them disappeared and Jean's dick was now at centre stage at the main event of the evening.

How did Otabek move like that without making it seem gratuitous or cheesy? Jean couldn't figure it out. His brain still wasn't working right, stuck in some drugged up, fucked up, Otabek’d-out haze.

He spun around to face Otabek, cheeks ablaze. Dark eyes and darker eyelashes tinted red in the light as he continued to _move_ like _that_. One hand wound it's way around Jean's neck and he said something Jean couldn’t make out over the music.

Inexplicably, Jean's ears started buzzing. The crowd suddenly feeling too close. There were voices in his head. Maybe his priest's, or his parents' or maybe his own? Panicked and oppressive like the soupy air of the basement.

_Jean-Jacques Leroy, what are you doing?_

Not Jean-Jacques. No, he was JJ here. And JJ was cool like Otabek. JJ snuck out to dance at clubs. He asked for weird drugs from guys with bleached hair and crooked smiles. He ground his dick onto Otabek Altin’s firm ass cause that’s what he wanted to do. JJ was the King of his own universe. JJ was—

Who started kissing whom was impossible to say. But Jean's heart thumped in his ears in time with the music, pelvis grinding and shifting to meet Otabek's in some strange interpretation of dancing (or... fucking? his heart jumped into his throat at the thought).

Otabek's lips were salty; sweat and tequila. Bathed in red light.

Suddenly the music was gone and every flickering fluorescent light in the basement flicked on. Jean (no... JJ?), stumbled, disorientated. There was the sound of smashing glass, then a yell.

Sirens?

The mood shifted abruptly around him, and a wave of reality came crashing down.

The heat of Otabek’s body was suddenly gone.

“Jean. Run.” 

He almost tripped over himself at the force of Otabek grabbing his wrist and yanking him from the dance floor. Suddenly they were behind the bar, the bartender hollering and joining the din of chaotic noise. Otabek shouldered through the swinging door and into the storeroom behind the bar, the door swinging closed behind them.

There was one unbarred window, street light filtering down into the darkened basement.

Otabek was under it, hands already webbed. Jean blinked. He shook his head.

“No. You. Shorter.”

He managed to choke out through the heart beat that threatened to swallow his own voice. Sidling up to the window he crouched down suddenly, picking Otabek up by his thighs and pushing him toward the window.

The other skater gave a very un-Otabek-like yelp, steadying himself on Jean’s shoulders before opening the window and crawling through. In a second he was on the other side, arm reaching through and down to Jean.

Jean’s pointed shoes were slick against the concrete wall but he scampered up, Otabek pulling hard until Jean could shimmy through the narrow window, the only thought echoing in his frenzied mind a collection of words in some combination of ’Beks’ and ’strong’.

Otabek was helping him to his feet when pounding footsteps echoed at the end of the alley way.

They were running again, wildly into the darkened street, shouts echoing off the walls behind them. It was unclear if it was cops, or drunks, or even a figment of Jean’s imagination, but he couldn’t stop running. That was until they met the dead end of the street.

“Oh, Crisse.”

Were the only words Jean could choke out, deflating a little from his previous state of panic. Otabek searched the alley with sharp eyes, normally well groomed hair in all different directions, in almost lose waves over his forehead.

_He should get a haircut._

Jean’s mind quipped as Otabek hauled open the metal lid of a nearby dumpster.

“Come on!”

He whispered harshly, prompting Jean to vault over and into the foul smelling cubby.

Jean landed carefully, Otabek soon after, luckily the only trash a few empty bottle and folded boxes. There breathing was laboured, echoing loudly off the thin metal walls of their temporary hiding place.

The sounds echoing over them were still in chaos, all shouting and broken bottles and sirens.

Otabek sat, back collapsing against the side of the dumpster. Breathing still heavy as he stared at the flickering lights overhead. One door of the dumpster closed and setting both teens in stark shadows.

Jean kneeled directly in front of Otabek, swallowing the thick spit in his mouth. Hands shaking, ears ringing, adrenaline pumping through his system hard and fast. What panic that had momentarily held him back in the basement fleeing his system…

…and he was suddenly acutely aware of Otabek’s breathing. 

In and out. In and out. Shirt damp with sweat and sticking to his chest.

_Otabek was so cool._

_So cool._

“Wanna suck your dick.”

His voice is unfamiliar to his ears, a rough exhalation. There was still red and blue lights bouncing off the concrete of the wall above them, not that it registered in Jean’s intoxicated psyche. Otabek turned to blink at him, mouth open just a little as he panted, catching his breath.

Jean’s hand seemed to move on it’s own accord, gripping Otabek’s soft cock through his jeans. He feels himself salivate, just imagining it. Hi palm dips and rubs against his balls through the rough fabric of his jeans.

Otabek doesn’t say anything his eyes are wide, like he’s looking at some kind of monster. And for a moment Jean feels like one. He dips his head to hungrily lick over the rough fabric, drool wet and messy over the metal tab of the zipper.

Otabek’s breathing quickens, chest moving in and out, black shirt shifting over firm muscle. Both Jean’s hands are working over the zip, pulling him free of his boxers. Fisting that quickly hardening flesh that pulses gently under his fingertips. His mind is confused. Part of him wants to stop maybe(?), but he can’t. He won’t? 

One thought in his head like a mantra.

_Otabek’s so cool._

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud.

Jean’s nose buries itself in Otabek’s pubes. Inhaling roughly through his mouth and there’s a voice in his head wondering why? Why hadn’t they done this before?

Otabek unknowingly answers the question for him.

“Jean, fuck.”

Otabek curses, finger lacing and unlacing in the long hairs at Jean’s nape, tugging a little. Jean’s teeth catch over his foreskin and he gasps. Not Jean. Jean doesn’t do what he wants. Jean’s scared and afraid. A good boy.

The world clicks into place.

“Don’t call me that.”

Jean responds, tongue lolling out of his mouth and running a wet line up Otabek’s cock. All blue eyes and large pupils shining in the scant light on them. 

_Red, blue. Red, blue._

“JJ…”

Otabek mouths.

Then Jean’s mouth is hungry on his cock, salivating and sucking hard. Too hard. Otabek tries to shift but it just met by long fingers at his hips keeping him pinned down. Jean is making noises like a dying man. Moaning and gasping around his cock, vibrations trembling along the sensitive skin.

His hands are shoved under Otabek’s shirt, pawing at every inch of skin they can find. Squeezing his pecs hard enough to make Otabek whimper. Scratching back down hard enough to leave raised red marks.

A good boy gone mad.

He’s gagging on his cock now, hard pallet rocking agains the head of his dick with rough ridges. And it’s like Jean has forgotten how to stop _drooling_ ; it’s pooling at the base of his cock, hot and wet and salty.

Jean’s thumbs dig into the nerves in the dips of his hipbones hard, finger nails leaving little half-moon indents.

“JJ… fuck… gonna…”

Jean pulls back suddenly, tongue flat at the head of his cock as long rope of white cum hit the roof of his open mouth and around his swollen lips. Otabek without wanting to squeezed his eyes closed; overwhelmed by the image.

When he opens his eyes he realizes the blue-red flash is gone, replaced only by soft yellow street light overhead. He turns his chin back down to see Jean, forehead buried at Otabek’s belly button.

“Jean… come on we gotta—“

Otabek realizes one of Jean’s hands has dipped into his blue jeans, frantically fisting his own cock.

“Jean-Jacques is dead.”

Jean croaks against his shirt, fist pumping up and down chaotically, body bent over and shuddering in sudden orgasm. 

He lifts his head from Otabek’s stomach slowly.

He’s unable to wrench his gaze away as Jean rubs Otabek’s slowly softening cock with his own cum. Otabek’s dick twitched helplessly at the rough tough. Then Jean is leant over him again, rubbing Otabek’s half-hard cock across his face, marring it with cum from the both of them. Blue eyes flashing, pupil black and unerring. 

He smiled up at Otabek through his eyelashes.

"All hail King JJ."

It was only then Otabek realised he had created a monster.

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ART](http://macherpuppy.tumblr.com/post/167585340242/for-notgneissatall) by macherpuppy.


	3. SHORT PROGRAM

———

At this point in his teenage life, Otabek was quite adept at shimmying up drainpipes, regardless of how drunk he was. Hoody pulled down low over his dark eyes and hair tickling over his brow, he peered up to the open window of the Leroy’s second-storey bathroom.

He didn’t, however, have experience shimmying up drain pipes with an out-of-their-mind Canadian pulling at the cuffs of his jeans and giggling. 

Otabek spared a quick glance down, trying to glare but coming short at Jean’s mischievous expression. The Canadian slipping just a little lower as Otabek shook his foot loose from his grip with a soft click of his tongue.

Getting to the open window, Otabek hauled himself through, careful to avoid face planting onto the clean white tile. He stepped carefully around the pristine bath mats, dirty boots leaving faint traces of watery mud.

He frowned mopping up the mess with a hand towel and, listening to Jean struggle outside the window. Stuffing the dirty towel in his pocket, he creaked open the bathroom window to take a few wavering steps into the darkened hall.

“Otabek?”

The two voices sounded in unison across the empty hallway. 

Otabek’s head snapped up to catch sight of two black-haired, blue-eyed twins staring unerringly at him from across the landing. Hands clasped together as if cut straight from a psychological horror classic. Both in matching maples-leaf print onesies (the standard issue Leroy family sleepwear).

Otabek straightened immediately, pulling his hair back up over his brow, keenly aware of his dusty black hoodie and the faint funk of smoke that lingered about him. He cleared his throat before he whispered across the space.

“Aren’t you meant to be sleeping?”

Drawing his eyebrows into an angular (and what he hoped was), menacing frown.

Before the twins could fashion a response, there was a loud clatter and chuckle behind him.

“It’s JJ Style!”

Jean laughed, tumbling in through the open window behind him to crash far-too-loudly onto the bathroom floor.

Both twins careened their necks around where Otabek stood in the doorway, trying to catch a glance of their eldest brother picking himself up from the floor.

Otabek refrained from kicking the giggling Jean in the gut to keep him down.

“We’re…” he mustered his most authoritative voice, “…training.”

Jean, seemingly just noticing his eight-year-old siblings beyond Otabek’s wide stance gathered himself to stand, putting on his best ‘angry big brother’ expression, stomping across the tiles and onto the carpet with dirty footprints. 

He loomed over them menacingly, blue eyes flashing.

“Go on, get, or I’ll tell Maman and she’ll take away your TV time.”

The twins must have caught the smell of booze on his breath because both crinkled their noses in mild disgust as they shirked back into the shadows.

There was a brief staredown between the two booze-drunk teenage boys and sleep-drunk children which was ended with the flickering light at the end of the hallway… from the Leroy parents’ room.

The twins were gone immediately, shooting a dirty look and a raspberry before slipping into their bedroom.

Otabek froze, grabbing Jean by the wrist and whipping him wildly around toward the door to their room. Jean laughed at being spun about, head spinning and still heavy with the dregs of whatever brownish powder had been dumped into his drink. His smiling mouth was quickly clapped over by Otabek’s hand, fingers smelling of tobacco.

Otabek closed the door behind them with a faint click, both boys sinking to sit behind the door in the pitch blackness of the room. Otabek’s own heartbeat loud in his ears as he heard the heavy footfalls of Jean’s father resonate through the hallway.

Jean’s nose was tucked close to his cheek, Otabek’s eye lashes tickling his face as he giggled to himself, watching the shadow of his father pass in the light creeping in underneath the door jam.

It was gone quickly enough, Otabek listening to the footfalls retreat into the bathroom.

“Shh…” he hushed Jean whom was still giggling between his fingers, mouth opening and letting out wet breaths to condense on Otabek’s palm. 

In the distance the bathroom door clicked closed.

“JJ…” Otabek added with a warning tone, the nickname seeming to control Jean’s laughter. His blue eyes growing a little wider and glassy.

Otabek dropped his hand when footsteps retreated back across the hallway and the light under the doorway finally disappeared, the house growing silent yet again.

He sighed heavily, letting the back of his head thump softly against the wood. Jean shifted against him, borrowed leather jacket creaking with the movement. His shirt hot and sticky underneath as Otabek’s other hand moved on it’s own to the small of Jean’s back.

Jean just stared at him through heavy lashes, wide and genuine smile still painted across his face. Otabek would have almost called it beautiful. _Almost_.

Otabek shook his head, eyes slipping closed as he scolded himself.

There was a burning feeling in his stomach. God, he must have been wasted.

———

Sunday breakfast was far too loud of an affair for Otabek, whom sat in unquestioned silence as the Leroy family yammered about him. Most of the family already dressed in their Sunday best, excluding himself and Jean whom were dragged out of bed still in their barely slept-in pajamas.

Otabek’s hair hung over his brow, half disguising his frown as he sipped his orange juice to listen to Nathalie scold another of her offspring at the far end of the table.

“JJ pass the hashbrowns!”

Came a cutting voice from the opposing side of the table. One of the twins dressed up in red suspenders smiling deviously under a framed portrait of the Virgin Mary.

“Yeah, _Jay Jay_.”

The other added snidely, dressed in a baby blue waistcoat. Far too clever for their own good.

Jean’s head picked up and cocked to the side, whilst Otabek gave his best understated glare at the two.

Jean clocked his siblings with a wide smile before passing over the plate of hash browns, seemingly unworried with the comment. The reaction puzzled Otabek whom watched Jean push a mound of fried potatoes onto his siblings plates.

Jean’s mother hummed into her sip of coffee as she spared the twins a look.

“What’s a JJ?”

One of them opened their mouth to answer but was intercepted by Jean’s voice, all bright rays of sunshine and confidence as if he hadn’t been ten layers of fucked up before only a few short hours of sleep.

Otabek didn’t know how he even had it in him.

“It’s this new, uh…” Jean swallowed, staring into his pancakes before looking back up with a slightly glazed expression, “My new theme. You know a new season, gotta mix it up, surprise them with something new.”

Jean’s parents faces were wary, whilst the twins and Otabek just looked at him with masks of slight confusion.

“And I’m gonna pick my own music! Something new and cool you know.”

He added hastily, nodding to himself in self-agreement.

Otabek watched Jean’s parents share sidelong looks as the twins grappled over hash browns.

“But honey, we always help pick your music…”

Nathalie began with a slightly disconcerted smile. Jean huffed, falling back in his chair dramatically.

“But Maman, that’s not JJ style. JJ style is, artistic, ya know, like self expression and independence and strength and all that stuff…” 

Otabek watched his mouth move around the buzz words in a strangely surreal way that reminded him of JJ’s cock around his mouth in a dumpster only a few hours ago… hungry and unsatisfied, self-assured and wanton. 

Otabek’s eyes snapped from Jean’s mouth and back to his plate, shifting in his seat trying to refocus on the conversation.

“… and you and Maman are always saying how I need to work on my PCS and I think—”

Nathalie opened her mouth with a frown to object.

“Easy, honey.” 

Alain’s eyes were calculating as he chewed his bacon and swallowed heavily, looking between his wife and eldest son. 

“Maybe this new ‘self expression’ will be good for him, get him motivated for the new season! Nothing wrong with that.”

He nodded to Jean over his own breakfast, watching his son’s expression light up.

“Surprise ‘em. Like that Nikiforov fella.”

He added with a sip of his coffee.

Otabek watch as Nathalie shifted a little in her chair, a slightly unpleased ‘hum’ in her voice as she spoke over the younger children.

“Yes, but Nikiforov’s programs are… flamboyant.”

There was a slight and awkward pause where the only noises in the room was the sound of chewing and clink of metal on ceramic.

Otabek kept his raised eyebrows to himself, in favor of a glance to Jean who seemed to have let to comment go obliviously over his head.

Alain broke the silence with a laugh, reaching over to clap Jean on the shoulder.

“Well, I support you son! You and this JJ style. We’re gonna knock ‘em dead this season!”

Otabek watched as Jean’s expression immediately perked up, scooping up his fork to shovel more pancakes in his mouth.

“Thanks Papa!”

Jean choked out with a swallow, shooting a side-long look at him with something that may just have been a wink.

Otabek refrained from kicking him under the table.

———

They normally smoked cigarettes in the service hallways under the rink. Tucked into the far end of the labyrinth behind the furnaces and vibrating cooling generators that kept the rink solid through the floor above them. It was dusty and cramped, even more so with the faint traces of tobacco smoke that filtered through the air only to be sucked into the hungry vents of the machines surrounding them.

Today was different, Otabek sensed it the minute Jean had pulled him down the stairs with a half-smile on his face and backpack slung over his shoulder.

The past few weeks were a flurry. Late Summer leading into Fall and the drastic hurdle toward the new competitive season. Jean seemed to be in full swing of ‘JJ Style’, touting it to anyone and everyone he came across. As if JJ style wasn’t born from a literal dumpster in the dead of night… it made the faint clench in Otabek’s chest tighten. It was something he couldn’t quite identify, and didn’t really want to think about.

So he supposed he wasn’t surprised when Jean dropped his backpack and pulled out a set of clippers usually used to shave his brother’s head every week before hockey practice.

Otabek had sighed as Jean pulled up an image on his phone, thrust it into Otabek’s hand, and pushed the clippers into the other.

There was tinny music playing through Otabek’s phone, balanced on the edge of a metal fuse box, overlaid with the hypnotic _buzz_ off the clippers as they moved over Jean’s scalp. The Canadian had flipped over an old plastic crate to sit obediently, looking at him expectantly and folding his hands together in his lap.

To be fair, Otabek thought it wasn’t the worst haircut. In fact, he’d go so far to say it was pretty cool. All clean lines and smooth undercut with a mop of black hair on top.

It suited him.

Jean hummed under his breath with the music as the clippers moved over his scalp, Otabek’s finger tips gentle as the pushed the shell of his ear back to meticulously shave clean, curved lines over his ears.

When it was all over, Otabek flicked the switch on the clippers, next track on his phone crackling into the air around them. Faint noise of synth and bass whispering in the service corridor. 

Jean was still smiling, chin turned over his shoulder and blue eyes masked with a look that could only be described as devious. 

He looked back down to the clippers, then back to Otabek’s face.

“Your turn now, Beks.”

Otabek blinked, and before he questioned his own actions, gave a half shrug and passed the clippers over to JJ, fingers brushing together as he moved to sit on the upturned crate.

It’s the whispered proposition that had come next, half way along in the shave when Jean had leant in close to breath in his ear, that had surprised him. The request barely audible above the hum of the furnace and the muted sounds of electronic music.

“No.”

Otabek returned gruffly. He would have turned to frown at Jean if not for the fact the clippers were still running paths through the slightly wavy hair at the nape of his neck.

“Beks, please!”

It was ridiculous. 

Jean using one of his mixes as his short program music?

Crazy.

Out of the question.

Otabek closed his eyes as Jean shifted the guard back and began to shave a clean line at the base of his skull. Breath warm against his skin and prickling with every sweep of his hand.

“No.”

He reiterated, a bit more gently that time.

Jean huffed to himself, examining the clean lines of the shaved undercut he flicked the switch on the clippers. He ran a hand through the long hair still on top of Otabek’s head, pulling it back from his brown to slick back for a moment. Black hair sleek between his fingers, he pivoted around to look at Otabek’s face.

He wore a stoic expression, as was normal, but with his hair slicked back could see the handsome line of his brow flicker a little as he dropped his gaze from Jean’s face with a slight exhalation.

Jean knelt in front of him, fingers clapping on the Kazakhs knees as he tried to catch his dark eyes, which were desperately trying to look elsewhere.

“It can be our thing!”

That caught his attention, chin rolling down to look at Jean who balanced his chin on Otabek’s knees. Tracksuit jersey littered with tiny black hairs.

“Our thing?”

Otabek repeated skeptically.

Jean nodded, eyes widening like an excited puppy.

“Like I taught you the quad salchow, you let me use one of your tracks for my short program music. Like a secret.”

_Like a promise._

Otabek’s shook the thought from his mind as soon as it came.

“I can’t even land the quad sal.”

He mumbled a matter of factly, brushing some of the shaved black hairs off his ears. They itched like crazy but he was too distracted by the Jean’s outpouring of charisma to care.

“But you will!”

Jean added, bouncing up from his spot to haul him to his feet and pulling him into a tight hug.

“I know you will Beks…”

He huffed sincerely into Otabek’s ear, having to duck his head down just a little to reach the spot. The warm air soothed the itch from the tiny hairs that still lingered over his neck and shoulders.

Otabek sighed internally and relaxed a little into the hug, chin resting on Jean’s shoulder.

“Our thing?”

A vehement nod of Jean’s head was the only response he got, sending loose hair raining down onto the concrete.

Otabek cracked.

“Okay.”

Jean pulled him back to stare in his face with an expression of sheer joy. He held Otabek’s shoulders with a firm grip and stared him straight in the eye as he exhaled:

“You’re the best, Beks.”

And kissed him.

For a moment it was just a firm press of lips, skin-against-skin, warm and comforting. It didn’t last long as Jean opened his mouth almost on instinct to let Otabek dip his tongue inside. It was less of a kiss and more of a wrestle of lips and tongue, as Otabek’s hands instinctively curled around Jean’s waist to crush the taller skater against him.

Jean let out a loud moan, that and the wetting sound of saliva echoing in the restrictive industrial space. His hands migrated upward to cup Otabek’s strong jaw in his palms, tilting his head to fully let him close his mouth against his own.

It stayed that way for a while. Otabek gradually and fully dominating Jean’s eager mouth as both stood pressed so close they were almost in contact toe-to-toe, forehead-to-forehead. Hard-ons pressed against each other through layers of cotton and polyester in a slow turn of their hips.

That was until Jean’s forgotten phone light up, buzzing on the concrete below them.

Otabek caught a glimpse of the image of red lipstick and a white dress out of the corner of his eye on the screen. He refrained from a dirty curse.

Jean tried to pull away, only managing to disconnect his lips as Otabek refused to relent the push of his hands at his waist.

“Come on, Beks…”

Jean pleaded, lips still puffy and wet with saliva as he tried to lean down to scoop up his phone.

Otabek, seemingly realizing what he was doing only at that moment, released his grip on Jean’s waist to let the other teen scoop up his phone. He plopped down onto the upturned crate, still surrounded by discarded hair and brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey, babe.”

He stammered, one hand wiping the saliva from his mouth on the back of his hand.

Otabek watched him, pupils still dilated and picking up the reflection of his phone screen in the dreary light that trickled from between the machines. Otabek’s playlist ticked over to random, abandoned on the fuse box.

“Yeah, no, yeah I’ll pick you up tonight.”

There was a niggling feeling in the back of Otabek’s skull, and before questioning himself, he dropped to his knees in front of Jean.

The Canadian’s eyes immediately snapped back to attention to look at him, thick eyebrows drawn up in an almost-cute expression of confusion.

Otabek took a knee in each hand and pulled Jean’s thighs apart, shuffling to occupy the space. Both hands groping to pinch at the tender skin where the muscle of Jean’s quad met his hip.

Jean swallowed as one of Otabek’s hand came up to snap the waist-band of sweatpants hard against his lower belly. He shook his head just a little in a vain attempt to stop him.

But Otabek didn’t think he really meant.

Otabek was close enough to _almost_ be able to hear the high-pitched voice from the receiver as he rubbed his palm heavy across the bulge in Jean’s trousers. He smirked a little to himself as Jean fumbled with his phone, swapping hands, one tentatively reaching out to comb again through the long hair at top of Otabek’s head.

“I’m fine babe, Just…” Otabek’s hand dipped into the fabric to pull free Jean’s cock as he sucked in a hard breath through his teeth “…finished practice.”

The Canadian’s eyes were as wide as dish saucers.

The wet and unbelievably hot feeling of Otabek’s mouth closing over the head of his cock dragged him from whatever conversation rang through the speaker of his phone. He shuddered, fingers clenching and unclenching in Otabek’s hair as the Kazakh hummed a little experimentally.

Otabek meanwhile, had made it his mission to get as many sounds out of Jean as was humanly possible. The taste of his cock was strange, but not bad. A musky scent, somewhere between sweat and cum and skin that clung around the curled hairs at the base of Jean’s cock.

He couldn’t say he disliked it as he licked back up to the tip to spare a hot-blooded glance at Jean’s expression.

The receiver wasn’t even at his ear anymore and he had fallen silent in favor of faint huffs of breath.

There was the faintest of noises through the speaker that sounded faintly like _Jean-Jacques… honey you there?_.

Otabek nodded faintly for Jean to continue his conversation as he tongued heavily at the slit of his cock.

Jean whimpered and complied, one trembling hand brought the phone back up to his ear. He swallowed heavily as his hand moved down to cradle the freshly-shaved base of Otabek’s skull. Looking for hair to loop in that was no longer there.

He was so hard, and part of him wanted to reach down to finish himself off. But there was another, more masochist part that wanted all his attention focused on making Jean unravel at that very moment.

“No, no, all good babe. How was your day?”

Otabek took the hand at the back of his neck as encouragement, dipping in lower to suck hard around Jean’s cock. His other hand pulled down hard at Jean’s slacks, managing to get them somewhere beneath his ass. Firm muscle digging into the rough plastic of the crate to leave tempting indents.

Otabek’s brow drew down in concentration, both hands circling the base of Jean’s cock to grip him as he sucked up and down. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his breathing grew rough and uneven, nostrils flaring as he tried to negotiate around sucking Jean’s dick and getting enough oxygen to his brain.

He was faintly aware of the tinny noises of conversation above him. Jean curled up over him with a long shudder, lip bit hard between his teeth and eyes wide and… _terrified_?

He gave a few slight aborted thrust into Otabek’s mouth.

“Yeah, I gotta go. Dad’s got me training hard.”

He choked out, long fingers digging into the tan skin at the back of Otabek’s head to leave whitened imprints.

Otabek growled, choking a little at the thrusts. A stray tear leaked out of the corner of his eye though he didn’t relent. Holding his position, forehead pressed hard against the bottom of Jean’s firm stomach as his hips thrust in the slightest of movements against the back of his throat.

“Mm, yeah, love you too.”

Otabek stopped for a moment at the words, angular brows drawing into a frown in contrast with the tears that painted rivers on his cheeks.

It surprised him when all of a sudden Jean came, biting back a gasp masqueraded into what was maybe a cough as he smashed the ‘end call’ button on his phone, hand still gripping Otabek’s neatly shaven scalp.

Otabek couldn’t hold his position any longer when the bitter taste started to accumulate at the back of his throat. The tip of Jean’s cock twitched as it spurted cum at the back of his hard palette.

Otabek pushed back hard against Jean’s hand on the base of his neck, the Canadian suddenly releasing him. He withdrew with a shuddering inhalation, spitting cum and saliva half into his blue jersey sleeve as he fell back on the hard concrete with a rough cough. 

Jean remained planted to the upturned crate with a somewhat stunned expression, looking halfway like he was about to fall over backwards as he watched Otabek fall on his ass only to catch himself on an elbow. 

Otabek swallowed what was left in his mouth with a hard motion of his Adam’s Apple, a few lingering smears of cum still panting his cheek as he glanced back up.

Glassy dark eyes meeting blue for a moment as the last words of Jean’s conversation rang through Otabek’s still hazy mind.

_Love you too._

———

He didn’t know when Jean and Isabella got so serious.

He shouldn’t care.

That’s what the logical, stoic brain told him at least. 

On Saturday’s normally he’d be out by now, shimmying down the drain pipe into the alley with Jean hot on his tail. They’d talk and drink and dance and press each other up again the walls of bathroom stalls; kiss until somebody shoved a hand down somebody’s jeans and inevitably cum.

Jean would laugh and ‘JJ Style’ and grind his cock on Otabek without a care in the world. Whatever life around him forgotten accept for the two of them; just hazy, fucked up teenagers rolling in downtown Toronto.

But tonight was different. Otabek didn’t know if it was because of what happened under the rink; he agreed to pick a track for Jean’s short program, flicking through tracks on his laptop and shuffling them over into his mixing software.

Jean was out for dinner with her parents. 

He hadn’t come back for his eight o’clock curfew.

Otabek didn’t care. He mixed and clipped tracks until he settled on something. Ripping it onto a blank CD without much thought. He didn’t need to think about it too much; it was the same mix he played that first night with JJ…

Otabek’s headphones were around his neck as he watched the little blue progress bar tick over to 100% as he burnt the music into the disk. Disk drive chugging with metallic huffs.

What should care about Jean throwing himself at some girl he’d sat with in Sunday school and probably known for most of his life; far longer than some transient like Otabek at least. What was it his business?

Besides Jean _loved her_.

He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

What did he care?

There was a clatter at the front door and a few giggles that echoed up through the foyer. Silently, Otabek slipped from his chair, out into the darkened hallway to peer over the railing to the front door.

Jean was in the doorway, all salmon-pink button up and black pressed slacks. Long hair of his undercut well primped as he stood with one hand on the door knob, back to Otabek whom lingered soundlessly in the darkness above him.

“…it’s JJ style, babe…”

His voice was echoey as it reached the landing. Otabek couldn’t see his face, nor could he hear the tittering response.

“…you’ll love it. I’ll show you tomorrow…”

The voices grew softer and more abstract, muffled by hugs and whispers.

Otabek exhaled slowly, withdrawing from the railing to go back into their room as Jean bid his farewells, all chaste kisses on the cheek and innocent well wishes. He slumped down back in his desk chair, haloed only by the blue light of his computer screen.

Otabek stared blankly at his screen for a moment. Without stopping himself to think much about it, he ejected the CD in his disk drive, replacing it with a blank one… he opened a new audio mix with a swift tap of his fingers. Eyes flicking through his music library with single minded intent.

———

There was an unprecedented amount of snow fall for so early in the Fall. A thick blanket of wet snow lay over the suburbs as the Leroy clan (plus Otabek) piled into the bright red mini-van. Otabek and Jean had been shoveling snow on the walk in silence that morning, Jean seeming strangely pensive. A mood that did not dissipate when they arrived at the rink that Monday morning.

Otabek immediately understood once he entered the foyer of the building to spot Isabella waiting in a cherry-red coat the same shade as her lipstick. 

She looked happy.

Otabek dipped his head, shuffling past into the locker room to dump his worn duffel bag on the benches.

He was half way into lacing up his skates when Jean bounced in. All rainbows and sunshine for a frigid Monday morning.

“You’re going to show Isabella the music.”

It was more a statement than a question. Tumbling from his lips without looking back from his laces.

Jean stopped his bouncing to look at him a little more carefully.

“Yeah, I mean…” one hand came up to scratch the short hair at the back of his head, still not quite used to the flow of air against his scalp, “…unless you don’t want me to? You finished it last night right?”

Jean added.

Otabek’s hands stopped moving. He grasped his laces, all twisted in his fingers. The CD was heavy in his pocket for some reason. Burning like a hot potato in the cold air of the rink.

It was meant to be their promise right?

He pushed the burning thought aside, withdrawing the CD to pass to JJ. The plastic case bearing no decoration besides an efficient ‘JJ_shortprogram_02.mp3’ in black sharpie.

Jean took the CD like it was his first born child, cradling it in both hands he seemed overwhelmed for a brief moment. Otabek watched as he slipped it into his track suit pocket before leaning down to scoop Otabek up off the bench in a bear hug.

“Thanks Beks,” he hugged a little tighter, so much so Otabek had to wheeze in a breath against the hard muscles of Jean’s arms around him, “It means a lot to me.”

There was a firm clap on his back before Jean released him, running off down the hall of the rink side, back to Isabella in her cherry red coat.

Otabek watched him go… there was a gripping feeling in his stomach.

He shook his head, mind going back to tightening up his laces.

_Left over right._

_Left over right._

It was a standard practice at the rink. Otabek circling the ice in steady motions, thighs beginning to burn as he went over the motions of his program, over and over again. The lactic acid in his muscles helped distract him from that continuously growing feeling of… something… in his gut.

He shook his head, skirting around a few novice skaters (including two of Jean’s siblings), he began to set himself up for a jump. Not just _a_ jump. The quad sal.

Otabek wasn’t meant to be training jumps, but something in the back of his mind told him that landing that jump would make him feel better. Release that feeling of disdain that ran so hard across his chest since he palmed the CD off the Jean.

He was already in the air by the time his mind had caught up with the motion.

And landed it.

One hand came down to the ice to catch himself a little as his knee buckled under him just barely, but managing a successful landing nonetheless.

Otabek breathed hard as he caught his momentum to grind to a quick standstill, a few of the other skaters around him stopping to give half-approving nods.

His heart beat fast in his ears and he felt the corners of his mouth twinge up into what could only be a smile.

The sound of the glass double-doors of the rink echoed through the room, along with the sound of two blade guards being slapped on the edge of the boards.

He turned to see Jean moving across the ice. 

Jean in his red jacket emblazoned proudly with ‘CANADA’ heading toward him with dark eyebrows drawn into an uncharacteristic scowl.

Otabek’s smile immediately dissipated.

Jean was skating toward him in powerful strokes of his legs. Cutting through the middle of the rink, interrupting ice dancers half way through a lift, almost knocking a group of novices on their asses entirely. A few annoyed shouts echoed across the ice as Jean drew ever closer.

He watched the Canadian’s feet move, almost entranced. Blade over blade, gaining momentum steadily over the ice. He caught a glimpse of Isabella crying in her cherry-red jacket beyond the boards.

Otabek thought Jean would stop three feet in front of him, standing tall and imposing on his skates. 

Otabek thought Jean would kick up chips of ice and curse at him under his breath.

Otabek didn’t think Jean would ever raise a fist at him, in a punch that would glance over his cheek bone and land on his nose to splatter blood over his face and across the ice.

He was wrong.

———

Otabek sat quietly in the manager’s office of the rink, vision half obscured with an ice pack that barely soothed the burning feeling which had radiated across the left side of his face. He kept his chin close to his chest, focusing on the steady throb of blood in his eyel as he felt the skin around it began to puff out. His vision tunnelling and growing fuzzy around the edges.

Otabek didn’t mind. It meant he didn’t have to look at _him_.

If he had, Otabek would have seen Jean’s head was also hung close to his chest, eyes closed. 

The two with matching slumped shoulders and fresh haircuts sat silently in front of the wide desk. The table-top lovingly adorned with a framed picture of TJ Brodie along with Jean’s parents with big 80’s hair holding matching gold medals.

Alain had his face in his hands a brief moment before moving them up to remove his cap and rub at his balding head.

The CD sat in front of him.

“This isn’t a good way to start the season, boys.”

Neither looked up. Neither said a word.

Alain huffed again, replacing his cap back on his head, lacing his fingers in front of him in an assertive posture straight from an MBA scholars program.

“Your mother is driving Bella home. You made her very upset, you understand?”

Jean’s mouth moved into a line, quick to respond.

“I know. I’m so—“

“Not you, Jean.” 

Alain shot back just as fast, rolling his eyes over to Otabek, whom lifted his gaze just enough to make eye contact with Jean’s father. He blinked, waiting for a response.

Otabek’s hand clenched a little hard in the ice pack, squishing against the neon blue gel.

“I’m sorry.”

He said softly, sincerely. Words a little muffled from behind the swelling in his face.

Jean swallowed as his father exhaled a sigh, not seeming to have been expecting much of a confession regardless.

“Look boys, I was a teenager once too. I know what it’s like to have these…” his hands made circles in the air, “…urges.”

Otabek and Jean looked up in unison.

Otabek’s heart migrated up into his throat, a burning, tickling sensation that threatened to have him vomit all over the smiling image of TJ Brodie and Nathalie’s perm blow-out.

Alain continued seemingly oblivious to the teen’s internal crisis.

“We all have girl problems from time to time. But jealousy is no way to solve any of it. Nor is violence. Jean.”

He added with a stern look. Jean nodding dumbly, eyes wide and frightened.

Otabek’s reaction meanwhile was nothing short of sour. 

“You know hormones and that. The tension is high, but…” 

He looked with almost condescending pity in Otabek’s direction an exasperated tone to his words. 

“Don’t you think you’re better off with a Kazakh girl, Otabek? You’re only with us until the end of the season, then you’re back off home. I really don’t think it’s a good idea to have you mooning over Canadian ladies in the first place, let alone Jean-Jacques Canadian lady.”

Otabek’s mouth was a thin line and he worked to keep his brows from a violent furrow in the centre.

It was awkwardly worded to begin with, clearly Alain was not the parent used giving his children ‘the talk’, but regardless the message had hit home.

_You’re only with us until the end of the season._

That burning sensation in Otabek’s chest subsided all of a sudden. Like a bathtub being drained of dirty water. Gurgling, gurgling down the drain until there was nothing left.

He nodded solemnly to Alain.

“Good, well…”

Jean’s father nodded to Otabek before picking up the CD with his thumb and forefinger as if it was a dirty rag and not a piece of plastic. His tone suddenly morphed into something significantly more threatening.

“I understand you are teenagers, but this kind of filth is not acceptable, you understand?” 

He made a show of flinging the CD into the trash bin beside him. 

“I don’t know where you are finding this _stuff_ , but if I hear one peep of anything like this again you’re on the first flight back to Almaty. Understand?”

Otabek brought the ice pack down from his face this time as he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You both are too young to understand these things. That’s why Nathalie and I are here as your coaches.” 

Alain added with an index finger to emphasize for good measure, apparently prioritizing his professional role over his paternal one.

Otabek could see Jean now, a fuzzy blur out of the corner of his bruised eye, sitting straighter in his chair with a hard knot in his jaw.

“But JJ Style—“

Alain raised a palm to stop him.

“Maybe next season, Jean. When you’ve grown up a bit.”

For a brief moment Jean looked like he was about to argue back, knuckles clenching in his track pants, one hand still bruised from impact with Otabek’s face. But whatever gusto was briefly in him vanished, deflating along with his posture.

Maybe next season…

He stole a glance at Otabek.

———

Otabek was already in bed by the time Jean finished his shower.

He slipped into the room, towel slung over his back in only a pair of bright red underpants, closing the door behind him.

Otabek’s back was turned to him in the darkened room, only his mop of unstyled black hair visible from under the blanket. There was a faint blue light from his phone screen, tipped sideways as a muted video played across the screen. He must have surprised Otabek, whom seemed to stiffen and freeze at the noise of the door.

Jean swallowed as he came closer, watching as Otabek flinched a little when a drop of water from Jean’s hair landed on the side of his face. He caught a glimpse of the program that played across the screen. A Russian junior in a sailor’s outfit flying across the screen in a massive quadruple salchow. 

Jean couldn’t see much of Otabek’s face, just the shadow of his profile in the blue light as his eyes traced the jump with one-minded focus.

The video finished, and Otabek gave no indication he planned to turn around to address him, dropping his phone back to the mattress.

“Sorry.”

Jean managed to say, much softer than he had intended. The words somehow fleeing his body.

He saw Otabek’s shoulders move a little under the blanket in something that might have been a shrug, hands trapped low around his waist.

“What for?”

Otabek mumbled back, and Jean might have thought he saw the tips of his ears tinged pink.

“I…” 

He swallowed again, words sticky in his throat. 

“Shouldn’t have hit you… stupid…”

He shook his head, sending more droplets flying wildly from his hair.

Otabek did roll over this time, blanket shifting enough for Jean to catch a glimpse of his bare shoulders and firm chest. He winced as he caught the full extent of the damage to Otabek’s face. 

Purple bruise mottling one cheek and the socket of his left eye, blood hemorrhaging against the white of his eye to give his dark eyes an even more surreal look. No wonder why Jean’s father had let him off easy…

Otabek sat up, blanket pooling around his bare waist. His expression tired and almost pensive despite the slight dampness to his brow and peaked colour to his cheeks.

“Don’t be. I shouldn’t have…”

He couldn’t finish, shrugging instead. Jean watched his muscles shift under tanned skin, eyes tracing down his bare chest. His nipples were puffy as if he had already been playing with them.

It was distracting.

Confusing.

Jean was surprised when a hand clasped around his own, pulling him down into the bed.

“Beks…”

He exhaled as the towel fell off and onto the floor.

Otabek was naked under the cover. And hard. He pressed the length of his body against Jean’s, one hand at his waist and the other pulling his neck down to desperately seek a kiss.

Jean had a weird feeling about it all… but couldn’t let it linger as he felt the weight of Otabek’s hardened cock press against his still damp thigh. Rip cage expanding and contracting in a hypnotizing movement of muscle as he breathed heavily against Jean’s open mouth.

Otabek’s mouth was soft and demanding, a hand pulling down at his underpants, which Jean squirmed out of with a slight moan.

He broke the kiss to pull the covers back up over them. Trapping them in the pitch blackness so that Jean could no longer see the angry purple marks that marred Otabek’s face.

There was something strangely otherworldly about it. Lead only by touch Jean sought out Otabek’s mouth again, moaning as their cocks rubbed together, and Otabek’s rough hands dug into the small of his back. It was damp and sweaty. The humid air punctuated by Otabek’s little gasps as he thrust his pelvis against Jean’s. Thumbs digging into the little dimples in the small of his back.

Jean felt him break the kiss, settling his lips back on the side of his neck to bite gently at the skin. Both Otabek’s hands were on his ass now, digging hard into the skin to break free a choked moan from Jean’s saliva-wet lips. For a second, Jean thought he would touch him _there_. Fingers skirting the edges of his rim but not committing the motion. Tickling and feeling experimentally.

Otabek paused. 

Jean could almost feel the heat of his gaze prickle through the dark as he pulled back just a little. His hands pawed around Jean’s hips, prompting him to turn over and let Otabek spoon him. 

Jean complied, feeling Otabek’s chest press flush against his back, and toe tickle at his ankles; the Kazakh just tall enough that his chin hooked over Jean’s shoulder. Breath hot and loud in his ear.

One hand was around his waist, the other back to pawing at his ass, skin damp and sticky to touch. He felt a prod against his sack, and before he could question what Otabek was doing, the thick girth of his cock was sliding between Jean’s thighs.

Something about it didn’t feel… right. He couldn’t see Otabek’s expression, but he could feel his breathing heavy and ragged. So different from his normal, controlled and barely-there moans.

Jean gasped as Otabek’s fist gripped purposefully around his cock tight, other hand wedged up to grab his ass and pull him closer. Instinctively, Jean tightened the muscles of this thighs hard around Otabek’s cock, head leaving sticky streaks of pre cum on his skin. There was a faint squelch as he moved, muscles hot and tight and close to something like sex.

The movement seemed to encourage him, Otabek giving another ragged moan as he began to thrust hard and fast between his legs. His fist pumped out of time with the thrusts, fingers twisting against the head of Jean’s cock, making him whimper. 

Jean’s hands moved back above his head, grasping at the shaved sides of Otabek’s scalp as he continued to thrust with reckless abandon into the tight space between his thighs. It was still dark, so dark, so Jean just wedged his eyes shut, focusing on the sporadic motions of the fist over his aching cock.

The echoing slap of skin was loud in the humid air under the blanket, accompanied by the faint slick noises and heavy grunts. 

“Beks… close…”

Jean whimpered, trying to thrust into Otabek’s waiting fist as the bones of his hips dug hard and fast into the muscle of Jean’s ass with every thrust.

There was something almost like a nod as Otabek’s forehead dropped to Jean’s shoulder, teeth digging hard into his skin as he gave a few more sloppy thrusts, cock rubbing hard against Jean’s balls.

He came all of a sudden, muttering something in Russian? Kazakh? Jean couldn’t quite catch as spurts of cum began to seep out from between his thighs and onto the sheets. Jean wasn’t far behind, shuddering and arching against the hard muscles of Otabek’s chest as he came onto his knuckles.

The blanket was quickly oppressive, atmosphere soaked with moisture, sweat and cum. It overwhelmed Jean, whom quickly kicked it off and onto the floor. 

Otabek’s phone falling with it, with a clatter.

They both laid there, spooned against each other and breathing heavily. Jean shifted, turning to look at Otabek with eyes now adjusted to the dark of the room. His pupils were dark and out of focus, and he barely flinched when Jean reached up with bruised knuckles to touch the puffy bruise of his cheek.

Otabek looked away, catching Jean’s hand gently and leaving the bed.

They stripped the sheets in silence, dumping them into the shared laundry basket already brimming with an almost indiscernible mix of shared clothing. 

Otabek huffed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and lose black tee before collapsing in Jean’s already made bed. His face gave an angry throb, a reminder of the bruise that would probably grow yellow over the next few weeks.

He was faintly aware of Jean standing beside his own bed, pulling on his underpants and throwing on a black hoodie. It almost looked like Otabek’s; but it was dark. He couldn’t tell.

Jean shifted from one foot to the other, expression one Otabek had never seen him wear before; stoic almost like his own. Thick eyebrows flickering in something close to confusion.

“Beks… do you lov…”

The words fled Jean’s lips before he could finish.

Otabek blinked, turning his head over his shoulder to look up at Jean. His blue eyes a little glazed. 

He didn’t say anything.

Silently Jean slipped into his bed, chest pressing into Otabek’s back as he wrapped his arms around his waist to pull him close. Otabek dare not say anything, didn’t want to confirm what he had said was true or not.

_You’re only with us until the end of the season._

If anyone had asked him later why he had responded the way he did, he couldn’t answer, because the words that came out of his mouth sounded all but entirely foreign to him:

“No. You’re just my friend, JJ.” 

There was a short moment of resonating silence.

Otabek felt him open his mouth as if to say something. Breathing warm against the skin of his neck, freshly shaved scalp tingling a little with the barely-there caress of air. Then nothing. There was a faint noise before Jean shut just mouth, face burying itself into the soft hair at of Otabek’s head, eyes fluttering closed with a shuddering sigh.

Otabek thought felt a drop of moisture slip silently down the back of his neck; but he was probably just imagining it. 

Jean didn’t ask again.

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [JJ_shortprogram_02.mp3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bDabnbutLU)


End file.
